


Expected

by LearnedFoot



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, Flirting, Infidelity, Late Night Conversations, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 12:47:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30072471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: A late night visit.
Relationships: Nan Pierce/Marcia Roy
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	Expected

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GlassesOfJustice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlassesOfJustice/gifts).



> Thank you for donating to a wonderful cause <3
> 
> Thank you to Cleo for being a wonderful beta!

It starts with a rap on Nan’s door, quiet but confident. A knock that announces its presence rather than meekly asking for entry.

She came. Good.

Nan opens the door with a smile. Marcia stands on the other side, expression pointedly neutral, though the silk robe clinging to her figure speaks volumes. 

“May I come in?” she asks, in that delightful accent of hers. A polite formality—they both knew the answer before the question was uttered.

Nan steps to the side, gesturing her in.

“Care for a glass of wine?” she asks as Marcia strolls through the door with the confidence of a woman who always gets what she wants. “I took the liberty of bringing up the bottle you enjoyed so much.”

Marcia glances at her sideways, raising her eyebrows. “I was told your family does not indulge.” 

“I can make an exception for the right company. Go on, take a seat, I’ll pour.”

Marcia follows the instruction, settling into one of the two plush armchairs that Nan set up just so. A side table is placed between the chairs, wine out and waiting.

Nan’s glad her preparations weren’t a waste. She’s normally right about these things, but Marcia seems like the kind of woman who could surprise her. Normally, that’s a good thing; she likes being kept on her toes. But spending the night alone would not have been a pleasant surprise.

“So, let’s get to it,” Nan says after she takes her own seat. “Did that boar of a husband send you?”

Marcia’s lips curl into a sneer. Somehow, even her disgust is elegant.

“Does my husband strike you as the kind of man who agrees to share?”

It’s the answer Nan expected, but relief sweeps through her body, making itself known in the muscles smoothing out along her back. She would not have turned down the gift of Marcia’s presence even if it came from Logan, but these things are always more enjoyable when everyone has the same agenda.

“No, he does not,” Nan agrees. “That would require being civilized. Seems beyond his reach.” She tilts her glass in Marcia’s direction. “Besides, you don’t strike me as the kind of woman who would be easily sent.”

Marcia’s expression shifts, transforming into something softer. No, not softer. Wrong word. She is not a soft woman, with her perfect posture and poise, fingers dancing along the edge of her wine glass like a promise. Something more comfortable—that’s the phrase for it. Like a mask she's removing, though she likely has ten others underneath. If Nan does her job, one or two more will come off before the night is through.

“Civilized,” Marcia repeats. She rolls the word on her tongue, tasting it. “Americans rarely are.”

Coming from someone else, Nan might find that insulting. But from this woman, in that tone, in this room? Nan knows the game, and this is a rare moment she’s happy to play the part of uncouth.

“That’s true. Brass and bawdy. A nasty bunch, the lot of us.” She places her glass on the side table, with just a touch too much force. The sound of it rings through the room. “We utterly lack subtlety.”

Marcia looks at the glass before dragging her eyes up Nan’s arm, across her chest, to her face. She places her own glass down gently, barely making a sound.

“Utterly,” she agrees, lips curving into a smile.

***

There’s so much that isn’t surprising about Marcia in the bedroom. Her grace, for one. She slips out of her robe with the precision of a dancer, each move lingering slightly—not long enough to be showy, but languid enough to be a show. She unhooks Nan’s bra with fingers that move like they’re playing an instrument and stretches out on silk sheets as if they are her natural habitat.

Which they are.

Her talent is also no surprise. As they kiss, Marcia’s fingers never stop moving. They cup Nan’s cheek, skim her sides and down her back. Twist her nipples, slip between her legs, finding their targets with precision. Those fingers could be dangerous, if they had an agenda other than pleasure; as it is, they rub and pinch and slide inside, teasing out heat and desire, bringing Nan to the brink but not quite over.

Those fingers have played this game many times before.

Marcia’s scent, her softness, the muscles that flex in strong thighs, strong arms—expected. Her silence too; the way she keeps her pleasure to moans and the occasional whispered “Yes,” and “Here, let me show you.” This is a woman who has too many secrets to spill her heart even in these intimacies.

The way she smiles, just a little, when she finally brings Nan to orgasm. Triumphant, like she’s won. That is exactly the smile Nan pictured as they sat across the dinner table all night.

But Nan gets her surprise when she slides down the bed, presses her tongue against Marcia’s clit, and is greeted by a high gasp, almost shocked. Marcia melts into it, legs spreading, hand grasping for Nan’s shoulder, clinging but not guiding. Nan expected a fist in her hair, to be told what to do. She thought Marcia would want to win at this too. Instead, she surrenders.

For those minutes, while Nan is lost in the taste of her, following the sound of her whines with her tongue, proving her own fingers know precision—for those minutes, Marcia lets her take control.

It’s a game they both win, in the end.

***

After, Marcia lays her head on Nan’s breast, tracing circles on her belly.

“I have not done that in a long time,” she finally says, and it sounds almost like a confession.

She does not clarify what _that_ is. Sex with a woman, receiving oral, orgasm? Maybe all three. Nan can’t imagine Logan is interested in much other than his own pathetic desires.

She runs her hand through the thickness of Marcia’s hair. _You can always leave him_ , she considers saying, but that would be an insult. Marcia knows what she can do; she has her reasons for being where she is. That much was clear from the moment she stepped off the Roy helicopter, more glamorous in that single instant than the rest of the family she has chosen for herself combined.

“I’ll give you my number,” Nan says, instead. “You can do it again whenever you want.”


End file.
